Page 38 of Vasily the Nail

“Is lies, I know this,” I promise Hector in my usual accent, which is also a lie, but it’s my persona. It’s my mask. “Now I need yours.”

His lie. He’s about to lie to me, I already know this, but I need to hear it.

“That’s not her. She didn’t dress like that. She wasn’t a whore. This fuck staged the whole thing. He murdered her because he’s a fucking freak, and then he staged it to make her look like a dead whore because he knows no one fucking cares about dead Mexican whores.”

Yep, lies. Including that last line. Because I do care.

I look between the two of them and then back at the body, deciding for myself how to handle this. They’re both dirty. They both did things that led to her death. They’re both responsible, but not equally.

“You, boy-o, your name.”

“Ian,” the murderer says. He did murder that girl.

“Ian, Ian, Ian. Roll sleeves.” Seems it’s a day for that.

One of Hector’s men does it, showing off Ian’s track marks for me. They’re older, though. Nothing from tonight. He hasn’t shot up there in a few weeks. That doesn’t mean he’s any cleaner than I am, but it’s enough for me.

“Her name—ah ah ah,”I say to Hector before he can respond. “Ian, her name.”

He stares at me as he says, “How would I know?” but I hear the tremor and see the sweat renewing on his forehead. It’s a high stress moment, he could just be having an internal meltdown so everything’s freaking out right now, but I think he knows I’ve put it together. And since I’m not a cop, I don’t need a warrant and there won’t be a trial by jury, a good guess is going to be enough here.

“Tell me.”

“I don’t know it.”

I pull out a knife and stab him right in the thigh. “Tell. Me.”

“I don’t know!” he shrieks. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know!”

“Bring here,” I tell the men holding him as I march back to the body and flip her hair out of her face so he can see it.

He looks away. Because he fucking knows her. She wasn’t shooting up in her arms. No, Hector would have known his supposedly innocent cousin was keeping shit from him. That’s why she was working on our side of Flagstaff, too. No, I saw it when I was looking at the abrasions on her toes. That’s where a lot of junkies shoot up if they’re trying to hide it.

“Tell me name.”

He shakes his head but can’t even speak now.

I rip him away from the Calaveras and kick his knees out so he falls right next to her, landing on his hands and knees, his face inches from her body.

It’s his breaking point. He starts mumbling his apologies to her, and again and again, he says, “Renata.” I look to his escorts, and they both nod.

“You two, junk buddies,” I tell Ian. “But tonight, on my street. Why?” I yell to his crew, who still have their guns pulled but have started lowering them since I arrived to mediate this clusterfuck.

One of them says, “Meeting with your guys,” and that’s on me for not knowing. I guess I dipped out on some stuff. I’m not sorry. I needed today.

“Okay. You see her, you want,da?She friend, but you want fucky.”

“I wanted to help her,” Ian whines. “She needed money. I had cash.”

“She said no, no fucky friends. You got mad. You choke.”

“What? No!”

“Stupid shit,” I spit at him. “Print on neck.”

He looks at the body and finally sees the handprint blooming there. “I’m sorry. I panicked. I didn’t mean to hurt her, I swear.”

“You don’t accidentally choke a bitch,” Alex chortles, the sound dying the instant he sees my glare. “Sorry. Sorry!” he yells to Hector.

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